


I.C.U.

by TheThirdTemptationOfParis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, TLD fix-it, based on an Adore Delano Song, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 05:40:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11155395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTemptationOfParis/pseuds/TheThirdTemptationOfParis
Summary: “I need you to wake up for me, beautiful. I need—God, Sherlock, I need to see your eyes again. I need to know you can hear me. I need—I need to know you can hear my apology. I’m not saying it until you wake up. So please… Just.. Please, Sherlock. Wake up for me.”Apologies and healing start in the hospital room.





	I.C.U.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the song I.C.U. by Adore Delano. I recommend listening to it while you read the fic to get the full affect.

_Comatose, caught up in the ghost of your touch. I’m holding on, you’re already gone. Is this love?_

John just looked at his bruised hand gripping his knee. He hates himself in this moment more than he ever has before. More than never telling Sherlock how he felt before the the Fall. More than he did when he put that damn ring on Mary’s finger knowing the man behind him was shattering into a million pieces. Not that he’d ever say it. John knew what he was doing when he hit Sherlock. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was letting out all the rage he’d been harboring for three years. He can’t claim blind rage if he knew what was happening.

He drew his eyes away from his hand slowly, reluctant to see the damage he’d done to the man.. God, he can’t even think the man loves, but it’s the damn truth. When he looks at the pale body before him, broken, bloody, bruised, it rips a sob from his throat. He did that to him. John Watson, the man who only ever wanted to touch this man with reverence beat him bloody instead. And he hates himself. He knows when he looks at him that Sherlock is so lucky to be breathing right now. He’s in such a fragile state because of all the drugs he’s been pumping in his veins that one misplaced hit or kick… No. He’s alive. He’s breathing, that’s all that matters.

John swallowed his pride and leaned forward in his chair, gripping Sherlock’s cole, _too cold_ , hand and pressing it to his lips, “I need you to wake up for me, beautiful. I need—God, Sherlock, I need to see your eyes again. I need to know you can hear me. I need—I need to know you can hear my apology. I’m not saying it until you wake up. So please… Just.. Please, Sherlock. Wake up for me.”

He sat in silence for long moments, hoping and praying that somewhere Sherlock would hear him. Willing Sherlock’s eyes to open, John wound their fingers together, keeping Sherlock’s knuckles pressed to his lips. I was so different from the way he’d envisioned holding Sherlock’s hand for the first time. He expected giddy laughter, kisses, and _oh God finally_. He can’t take the hate burning in his gut, the tears stinging his eyes, so he drops Sherlock’s hand and leaves the room, not making it very far before falling to the floor and weeping.

_Open eyes to fluorescent lights and the truth. Frozen in my new shielded skin thanks to you._

The first thing Sherlock noticed when he woke up was the incessant beeping of a heart monitor. The second things he noticed was the feeling he’d thought he’d dreamt up. The feeling of a hand in his. The feeling of _John’s_ hand in his. The third thing he noticed was that he was alone in the room. So maybe it was just a dream, then. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt just a bit, if the thought of it didn’t rip something akin to a sob from his hoarse throat.

He let himself cry for the first time since leaving John after Bart’s. He let himself grieve the loss of John again because this time it’s real. It’s real because he let Mary die when he could’ve stopped it by keeping his mouth shut when it came to Norbury. He’s lost John and it’s all his fault… until the man himself opens the door and walks in, rubbing his eyes as if he, too, had been crying. When he caught sight of Sherlock, he nearly collapsed to his knees.

“Oh god, Sherlock,” John’s voice broke as he nearly ran across the room and actually collapses to his knees, “Oh thank god, thank god, thank god. Jesus Christ, thank you,” Despite all the tension and desperation running through John’s body, he pulled Sherlock’s head to his chest and just held him close, running his fingers through his hair gently, “I thought you’d never wake up and—Jesus, Sherlock.”

“John, please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” His voice was flimsy from disuse and fear of John getting angry again. He knew it was just a matter of time before the rage comes back. The word he’d heard were not from the real John, but some dream conjuration of him in his drug-addled mind. He’s become so good at that lately.

But John’s looking at him with this soft, fond, watery look and Sherlock knows, he just knows that John isn’t angry anymore. Not at him, at least. “What are you apologizing for? That’s my job now.”

“But in the morgue, you said—”

“I don’t give a shit what I said in the morgue, Sherlock. It’s not time for that. It’s time for me to apologize. Not just for that, but for everything I’ve ever done.” But he falls silent. Sherlock looks over his face, which is tight and hard.

“John, what—?” Sherlock starts, but John holds up a hand, quieting him.

“Let me get this out. I have a lot to apologize for, Sherlock. You and I both know that.” And he does know that, but that doesn’t mean he needs to hear it. He doesn’t want to push John to say it, no matter how much he would like to hear it, “In the beginning, I shouldn’t have pushed it like I did. If I didn’t scare you off that first night, maybe we wouldn’t in this situation.

“If I would’ve taken your offer for a date during the Blind Banker case, if I hadn’t gone from woman to woman—”

“If I hadn’t jumped,” Sherlock interrupted.

John’s eyes flicked up, “If I hadn’t stayed with Mary. But we could play the ‘what if’ game all we want, and it won’t change anything. But we can change now. I’m so sorry Sherlock, for every slight I’ve ever done. I’m sorry for ignoring your feeling and my own. But most of all I’m sorry for the morgue, for blaming you, even for goddamn marrying her when you looked at me the way you did.”

Sherlock just stared at John, bewildered by him, as he’d always been, “So what are you saying, John?” He hoped beyond all hope that what he was seeing in John’s face was true. That he was looking at him like that because he was finally done dancing around everything between them. 

“What I’m saying, Sherlock Holmes,” John said, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own, “is that I am completely and absolutely in love with you, So tell me, will you have me?”

Sherlock looked at him with immense trepidation, reservations he he didn’t want to voice running through his head. John was part of the reason he was in this bed right now. He didn’t know the length of John’s rope now that the majority of his world had fallen apart.

But John saw it. Of course he did. He released and sat back, and Sherlock instantly felt the loss. “Right, I suppose that much should’ve been obvious. If there’s nothing I can do to fix it, I can go. If that’s what you—”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted, “ _My heart’s still beating and it beats for you_. Don’t go. Just… promise me you’ll do what you can to get help?”

“I promise, love. I promise. Let’s start at the beginning, yeah? No more secrets, no more anger.”

Sherlock leaned forward as carefully as he could and placed his hand on John’s jaw, “I would like that very much, John Watson,” he said, and kissed the man he loves for the first time.


End file.
